Aloha Lagoon Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 11-15)

By Beth Prentice, Anne Marie Stoddard, Sally J. Smith and 3 more

Enjoy fun, sun, laughter, romance, and just a little murder at the Hawaiian island's most "killer" resort, Aloha Lagoon! This boxed set contains 5 full-length cozy mystery novels in the Aloha Lagoon Mysteries series by USA Today bestselling & award winning authors, including:

Beachboy Murder (book #11)
Just as travel agent turned reluctant sleuth Gabby LeClair is starting to gain some of the Aloha spirit, she finds a dead body in her very own backyard! Now Gabby must find the truth about this former beachboy's shady past before his killer strikes again.

Handbags & Homicide (book #12)
Kaley Kalua is excited to help her best friend celebrate her wedding in paradise... until Kaley's ex-husband shows up with his new girlfriend! But things become downright deadly when the girlfriend is found dead and the police suspect Kaley. Now Kaley must do a little investigating of her own if she wants to live to see her friend walk down the aisle.

Tiaras & Terror (book #13)
Happy Hula Boutique manager, Kaley, is excited to celebrate Halloween with her friends at Aloha Lagoon’s upcoming Alohaween Festival—that is she's dragged to a ghoul-themed beauty pageant to cheer on her longtime nemesis, Harmony Kane. The competition is stiff, and things turn deadly when the winner is found staked with her own scepter!

Photo Finished (book #14)
When photographer Autumn Season lands the job of official photographer at the prestigious Aloha Lagoon Resort, she's ecstatic. But a lively luau suddenly turns deadly, and Autumn realizes she may have accidentally snapped a picture of a murder in progress! Now the killer will go to any lengths to protect his (or her) identity, and Autumn is clearly in their sights.

Fatal Break (book #15)
When Samantha Reynolds find her bestie, surf shop owner Alani, standing over the dead body of her wayward ex-boyfriend, she knows there's trouble in paradise. While Sam knows Alani is innocent, the local police aren't so easily convinced, and Sam realizes it's up to her to clear Alani's name and find the real killer before her friend ends up behind bars.

"I LOVE returning to Aloha Lagoon Resort...No matter what part of the island you are on with whichever author is telling the story, you cannot help being swept away." ~ Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

The Aloha Lagoon Mysteries:
Ukulele Murder (book #1)
Murder on the Aloha Express (book #2)
Deadly Wipeout (book #3)
Deadly Bubbles in the Wine (book #4)
Mele Kalikimaka Murder (book #5)
Death of the Big Kahuna (book #6)
Ukulele Deadly (book #7)
Bikinis & Bloodshed (book #8)
Death of the Kona Man (book #9)
Lethal Tide (book #10)
Beachboy Murder (book #11)
Handbags & Homicide (book #12)
Tiaras & Terror (book #13)
Photo Finished (book #14)
Fatal Break (book #15)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gemma Halliday Publishing
• Release date: Aug 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005608309

Beth Prentice

USA Today bestselling author Beth Prentice was born in Manchester, England, but after moving backwards and forwards across the world 13 times in 14 years she decided that at the age of 18 that Australia was to be her home. She now lives on the beautiful Sunshine Coast in Queensland, Australia where every day is a good one. She is the lucky mother of two grown up children, and, along with er ever-patient husband, she is the proud but sometimes flustered owner of four dogs, a cat, and a canary. She has always had a love of reading, and even though her background is in accounting, she has now discovered her love of writing. Her main wish is to write books you can sit back, relax with, and escape from your everyday life...and ones that you walk away from with a smile! When she's not writing you will usually find her at the beach with a coffee in hand, pursuing her favorite pastime —people watching!

Book preview

by

SALLY J. SMITH &

JEAN STEFFENS

* * * * *

For Paul and Nicole. I love you kids

—Jean

For Dale, who loves Hawaii...and me

—Sally

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

Janet! I shouted and waved, even though she couldn't hear me through the layers of thick glass in the airport door. Over here.

Janet Belinski walked down the airstairs and stopped on the tarmac lifting her face to the bright Hawaiian sun.

I owed this woman—big-time, and I made it a point to let her know she'd changed my life, helped me breathe again, and that I'd never forget it. My best friend and ex-boss was the one who'd chastised me to stop wallowing in my suddenly single existence and get on with my life, to yank off and throw away the ticking clock I'd been chained to that had ruled me in the Windy City. Janet was even the one who'd discovered the small boutique travel agency for sale at the Aloha Lagoon Resort in Kauai and had convinced me to buy it and live the life that both she and the inner me knew I was destined to live. I loved her dearly, and this was the first time I'd seen her since moving to Kauai.

The sight of her made me want to shove open the door, run out, and pull her into a huge bear hug. That would have surprised Janet. The Gabby LeClair she knew from the old nylons and business suit days in Chicago wouldn't even have thought of such a public display of affection.

But that was before I'd been lulled by the siren song of the sweet island melodies in the trade winds and the music in the soft voices of the islanders and had taken them into my soul. That was before Rick Dawson had called me Princess and shown me the lights of Waikiki from his helicopter at night and then taught me, Miss All-thumbs And-proud-of-it, to drive a stick-shift shuttle bus.

While Janet waited on the tarmac, a diverse group came down the stairs of the sleek Gulfstream chartered jet that had just landed at Lihue Airport. Twelve in number, including my friend, they comprised a consortium that had contacted me a few weeks ago, saying they were interested in buying Gabby's Island Adventures. I hadn't said yes. I hadn't said no. In fact, I hadn't said anything about their offer, but they came to Aloha Lagoon anyway.

Janet looked around and finally saw me standing inside the terminal waving at her like an AirDancer at a 4th of July car sale. Her face lit up and broke into a wide grin. She shouted into the wind and grabbed onto her wide-brimmed hat to keep the trades from snatching it off her head before turning to speak to the man who'd come down the stairs behind her.

His back was to me, so I couldn't tell much about him. But the way he dressed spoke volumes. In heavy army-style boots over thick white socks, multi-pocketed photographers' vest, bushman's hat, and too-short khaki shorts, he looked more like he belonged on an outback adventure than an island sojourn. The shorts were a little comical. The style that was more than fine on Tom Selleck's long, lean legs lacked appeal on this man's pale, furry drumsticks.

He and Janet exchanged words before he turned back to take the hand of a small, schoolmarm-type woman disembarking behind him who was dressed exactly as he was.

After his twinsie made it safely down the stairs, the man stood watching as others followed behind her.

Janet turned toward me then and threw an enthusiastic, wide-arcing wave before breaking into a run, which wasn't an easy thing to do in the form-fitting pencil skirt and gorgeous black-patent Christian Louboutin five-inch stiletto pumps. I sighed, remembering the days of tackling stairs in that kind of skirt—and forget about getting in or out of a taxi with any dignity at all.

The shoes? The shoes I got. I hadn't yet had the heart to give up my own red-soled beauties, although I wore them less and less often these days. One tended to forego eight-hundred-dollar footwear when driving a standard transmission shuttle or boarding an inflatable Zodiac boat or leading a group of tourists on a zip line.

But Janet did look good. In fact for a fifty-eight-year-old woman, she looked terrific—slim and straight-backed, her lovely face unlined courtesy of regular visits to her dermatologist for Botox injections. Janet still wore her hair as I remembered, perfectly silvered at one of Chicago's premier salons and in a shoulder-length smooth pageboy. Back in the day when she'd been my boss at Corporate Worldwide Travel, I'd always joked I wanted to grow up to be like her.

At thirty-two, I still had a couple of decades to get myself together, although my B-cups and the rest of my boyish shape would never compare to her womanly curves. Maybe if I took care of my skin, let my short-cropped blonde hair grow long and silvered it, I might come close to her elegance. I could always buy blue contact lenses to disguise my brown eyes. What's that song about making my brown eyes blue? Anyway, my friend was stunning.

The aspiration to emulate Janet in personality and career had ended with my divorce and my intense need to uncoil the tight spiral I'd wound myself into. That Gabby had slowly begun to take life at a less intense pace than a strict goosestep. And I was ever so thankful she had.

I pushed open the door when Janet was just a few feet away, and she stumbled at the threshold, practically falling into my arms, the skirt and heels finally getting the better of her.

We hugged and laughed, and when we pulled away, while I was smiling, I was a little surprised to see tears in her eyes.

Oh, Gabby. I've missed you.

Me too. My happiness at seeing her bubbled up in me like fizzy champagne. It's been way too long.

Taking a few deep breaths and yanking off her hat, she turned with a huge smile to greet the others who were now approaching the concourse.

The twelve were made up of five couples, Janet, and another woman traveling by herself. They seemed to range in age from mid-thirties to fifties with the exception of the Bobbsey Twins couple who were still outside and were obviously younger than the others. The twins stopped halfway from the plane to the door where they stood looking at the terminal—well, more like looking at the roof, pointing and discussing something with so much animation, I almost went outside to see what that was all about.

The two were laughing—well, snorting, really—as they finally came to the concourse. I held open the door for them.

Holy extinction! The young man's eyes were open wide as he grabbed my hand and pumped it. That's a honeycreeper out there. Do you have any idea how rare it is to see a honeycreeper these days, why, Miss…

LeClair. Gabby.

…Miss LeClair, professional ornithologists can go months without seeing one these days.

The woman with him joined in, gushing, And we spot one within five minutes of our arrival?

They high-fived and said in unison, Whaaaat?

I pasted a smile on my face. Orinthol…?

Chasers, he said. Bird chasers or watchers.

Oh. I see. Actually, I didn't. But they sure made it sound exciting.

He'd just seemed to realize he was still pumping my hand and let it drop. It was clammy, and I had to fight the urge to wipe it on my skirt.

I'm Freddy Lancaster. He tipped back the brim of the bushman's hat and pushed the heavy glasses back up on his nose.

His companion stepped forward and offered her hand. Dolly. Lancaster, too. We're married.

There was a brief moment of the two gazing into each other's eyes before Freddy grinned back at me. Gonna be a super time on this island, Miss LeClair. I feel it in my bones. Just super.

Yes. Dolly was just as enthusiastic. Superdooper.

If it's birds you're after, the environs around Aloha Lagoon are rich with them. I followed them inside then double-timed it up to the front of the group. Aloha and welcome to the island. If you all will just follow me outside to the shuttle, we'll be on our way as soon as…

Janet finished. As soon as I make sure your luggage is being taken care of.

I pointed Janet in the direction where the baggage would be brought in then turned and led the group through the terminal outside where my gorgeous shuttle bus was parked at the curb.

Standing by the door, I did my usual head count as they all boarded.

These eleven comprised the consortium that Janet now worked for, overseeing the string of international travel agencies they owned. Evidently Janet had recommended that they investigate the plausibility of buying out my agency, Gabby's Island Adventures, to add to their list of companies. She hadn't consulted me before making that recommendation, and I truly wished she had. The thought of selling hadn't occurred to me, but I figured I might as well hear what they had to say.

After scrutinizing my little company—in what I was sure would be in both broad-spectrum and minute detail—they would decide if it met their standards and if they wanted to make me an offer.

Problem with the whole scenario was that ever since that day three weeks ago when I'd spoken to Janet on the phone and she'd said they were coming, I'd been vacillating.

Yes. You could have just called me Prince Hamlet. To sell or not to sell. That is the question. What if they offered me a lot of money? It would be nice to have money, sure, but then what would I do with myself? Would I be able to make up my mind by the time the consortium had made up theirs?

CHAPTER TWO

Janet sat behind the driver's seat as I drove the group from the Lihue airport back to Aloha Lagoon Resort. She whispered in my ear the entire time.

Oh, little sister, I'm so impressed you can woman-handle this brute of a vehicle like it's nothing more than a minivan. I mean, you're Wonder Woman. Who would've thought?

I had to laugh. Brute? I've been trying to come up with a name for this thing ever since I bought it, and I believe you've just done it. Brute.

She laid her hands on my shoulders and squeezed affectionately. Just wait'll the back-home crowd hears you've gone renegade, shifting this thing and careening around like Mad Max or something. When I first talked to you about coming here and buying the travel agency, I had high hopes you'd find the life you need. I never dreamed it would turn out so smashingly. She raised her voice to sing out so the quiet passengers in the back could hear. I'm very proud of my friend. And I love this brute she's driving around.

In reality I'd also thought of the bus in terms of being a brute until I'd learned to drive it. The twenty-passenger shuttle bus with my Gabby's Island Adventures decals on both sides was near and dear to my heart. It was the first, and so far the only, business loan I'd taken out since buying my travel agency and moving from Chicago.

I said over my shoulder, This bus has turned out to suit my needs perfectly. Good thing, too. I still have four years of payments on it.

Back in Chicago, you either took an Uber or the L. I didn't know you could handle anything more complicated than a cab fare. How'd you figure out all this? She reached over the seat and pointed at the manual shift.

Rick taught me.

Rick Dawson? Ooh, what is it they call him? Mr. Coffee, Tea, or Me? Is he teaching you anything else? she teased.

Wouldn't you like to know? I teased back.

We pulled up under the portico at Aloha Lagoon Resort. I'd called ahead, and Lana and Koma Pukui waited under the overhang with leis hung across their arms.

I opened the door, and Janet got up and went down the steps. Koma met her, hung a lei around her neck, and kissed her on both cheeks.

She twisted her head to look at me over her shoulder with a lustful expression on her face and a growl in her throat. Rowwr.

Down, girl, I said so she could hear but the others toward the rear of the bus couldn't. No cradle robbing.

The twenty-four-year-old Pukui twins, Lana and Koma, both worked for me while they were learning other trades and trying to figure out which direction they wanted their lives to take them. Lana handled phones and bookings in the office and escorted the occasional group, while Koma helped me with driving the shuttle, also acting as tour guide, and just being an all-around supportive team member. The twins were full-blooded Hawaiians, and two of the most beautiful people I'd ever met, both inside and out.

Janet grinned, gave me a thumbs-up, and headed into the lobby, while the twins positioned themselves on either side of the shuttle door.

I stood and turned, addressing the group. Well, here we are. Janet's made all the arrangements for your rooms and will be back to hand out room keys and information packets on the resort and the island. We've made arrangements later in the day for you all to take a circle island helicopter flight with Rick's Air Paradise. So after you've had a chance to go to your rooms and put your feet up a little while, let's all meet again at the travel agency just off the lobby, and Koma will drive you out to the air field for your flight.

Janet came back out with several packets in her arms and waved at me.

I made the welcome official. Your rooms are ready. Your island adventure awaits.

The group began to stand and move out into the aisle, murmuring among themselves. I stepped off the shuttle, joining Lana and Koma, watching as they did their charming greeting.

The first person off the bus was a short, stocky man with thinning grey hair that frizzed out from his head in only a slightly less chaotic way than Einstein's and looked to be around fifty or so, with penetrating dark eyes under bushy brows.

While he didn't smile, he did thrust his hand at me, which I shook. Hershel Goldberg. You must be Miss LeClair.

His grip was firm.

Gabby, please.

Aloha, and welcome to Aloha Lagoon Resort, Lana said, hanging a lei on him and demurely kissing his cheek.

Thanks, sweetie, he said to Lana before taking one of the packets from Janet.

Hershel, Janet said. You're in Bungalow 15-B. The bellman will show you the way.

Hershel turned and helped a smartly dressed woman down the step, a diminutive but curvy blonde with intentionally dark roots and soft, pretty features. She wore a black and white striped maxi dress under a white shrug and a pair of black patent Loubies platforms. The outfit, while simple, most likely had set her back a couple thousand dollars. Not my wheelhouse, at least not these days. Once I might have lusted after that chic look, but lately, I've tended to look at two thousand dollars as an ad campaign to promote a tour group to the big island or the Shakespeare festival in Honolulu. Ah, yes, how things do change.

The stylish woman opened her mouth to speak, but before the words were formed, Hershel said, This is Sarah, my wife.

She cast him an irritated look, gave me a tight smile, and leaned in to accept her welcome lei from Koma.

The single lady came next. Chelsea Westport, was all she said before dropping her head down so Koma could drape the lei over her, but when he leaned in to give her the traditional peck on the cheek, she pulled back and wagged a stern finger in his face. Oh, no, you don't. You're just like all the rest. I know what you're after.

Chelsea looked like an ad for a Beverly Hills boutique. The odd thing about her was that above the neck she looked like the last woman on Earth to be wearing stylish clothes. Guessing her to be forty or so with an unlined olive complexion and dark, straight hair that hung Cher-style from a middle part to her waist with long blunt-cut bangs, her features were without makeup and as plain as a slice of white bread.

Koma looked as if she'd slapped his face.

Chelsea moved on, and I mouthed don't worry—it's okay to Koma.

I looked at Janet who shrugged and whispered, "Right, lots of fun that one.

And that's the way it went, the bigwigs from Chicago getting their first taste of aloha. The three other couples were middle-aged and older with that look of Lake Shore Drive about them—translate that look of old, serious money.

Freddy and Dolly Lancaster were the last couple off the bus. The Bobbsey Twins.

Freddy was a little on the soft side with short, curly hair, and a pretty good-sized honker holding up heavy-rimmed eyeglasses. The eyeglasses sported a snazzy pair of clip-on sunshades.

Dolly Lancaster was the yin to his yang—right down to the black-framed glasses with the clip-ons. She was medium-height with those stringy, lean lines of a runner. Her dark hair had been pulled back up under the same style bushman's hat as Freddy's.

They stopped in front of me, simultaneously flipping up their clip-on shades.

Lana draped the lei over his head and pecked him on the cheek.

Freddy turned, flipped his clip-ons back down, spread his arms, and announced. Hey, man, how about that? I got leied at Aloha Lagoon Resort.

His wife, Dolly, laughed as she got leied herself.

With all the members of the group now heading up to their rooms to freshen up before their helicopter tour, Koma took the bus to gas it up.

I hooked arms with Lana as we walked into the resort and headed for my small office just past the concierge desk. Thanks for that sweet welcome today.

Sure, she said. You aren't really going to sell the travel agency, are you? I mean it seems like you just got here. And you're thinking about leaving already?

She sounded stressed, and for some odd reason that made me feel good, made me feel like she didn't want me to leave, like maybe I really did belong here.

We'll see, was all I could say. I didn't know what the outcome would be. For all I know once they see how things are around here, they may not even make an offer to buy it.

Buy what? Rick Dawson, the reason my heart fluttered on occasion, stood leaning against the wall by the door to Gabby's Island Adventures. He was dressed in his signature uniform—jeans, boat shoes, and the royal blue polo shirt with his logo hummingbird and Rick's Air Paradise embroidered above the pocket. He must have gotten some recent sun. His skin was golden, making his eyes shine like blue ice. He straightened away from the wall as we walked up, and slipped an arm around my waist, pulling me against him and kissing the top of my head. His scent, Old Spice and fresh island breeze, and the irresistible combination of his golden good looks and unmistakable virility definitely kept a girl on her toes but in a good way.

Inside the phone was ringing, and Lana went to answer it.

Buy the travel agency. Lana was just asking me if I was really going to sell out to Janet's bosses.

While the shift wasn't overt enough for me to be sure, I thought I felt a hint of his pulling back a little. And what did you tell her?

That it was all up in the air, that I didn't know if they'd even want the place.

Why wouldn't they want it? Gabby's Island Adventures is aces. You're the tops, Toots. His tone was frank, matter-of-fact. You've even made my business profitable since you took over my bookings.

You're biased, Dawson. You do have a business interest here yourself.

He moved his arm up from my waist and put his warm hand on the back of my neck. My interest isn't all business, Princess. You get the notion to up and leave Kauai, and I'm gonna be one lonesome flyboy. I looked up at him, and a blue veil of yearning dropped over me, making me weak in the knees. It never failed to amaze me that a good-natured rascal like Rick Dawson found something in me that fit hand-in-glove with something in him.

We walked into the travel agency where Lana was already on the phone, and Ace Garrison, the other chopper pilot for Rick's Air Paradise, sat in one of the director-style chairs with his feet propped up in another.

Ace was a good-looking black man with a closely shaven head. In his late forties or early fifties, he was trim and fit. He reminded me of Eddie Murphy, both in looks and in the way he laughed whenever something tickled his funny bone. It was a big infectious sound that burst out from deep inside him like the blast of a horn or the bray of a donkey. Ace was dressed exactly like Rick.

Hey, Gabby. Ace dropped his feet out of the chair, stood, and gave me a brief, platonic hug. How's every little thing?

Every little thing is great. I pulled back, looking between the two men. If you're both here, who's getting Stella and old Bessie prepped for the afternoon group? Stella and Bessie were Rick's two helos.

Rick shrugged, snagged two of the pineapple coconut mini muffins off the coffee stand, and tossed one to Ace. Still mindin' two stores, I see—yours and mine. But he winked when he said it. When I'd first come to the island, my constant micromanaging had been a source of contention between the two of us. These days I made a concentrated effort to avoid that behavior, and he tended to overlook it if I slipped. Left a mechanic at the airfield to get the girls ready to fly. It'll all be sweet and smooth for your potential suckers, Princess. Don't worry.

Suckers, Rick? Really?

Well, you know. They say one's born every minute according to P. T. Barnum. That was back in the mid-nineteenth century though, and the way things are these days with so many different ways to scam people, there might be fifty suckers born every minute.

But you aren't planning to scam us, are you, Miss LeClair?

I whipped around to see Hershel Goldberg and his pretty blonde wife, Sarah, from the consortium. My thoughts returned to a childhood memory of having gone to my first (and only) synagogue service with my then BFF Leah Silverstein. Hershel Goldberg, with the wild and woolly hair, looked exactly like the rabbi who'd solemnly read from the Torah that Saturday morning.

The couple stood in the doorway to the travel agency. Janet stood behind them, looking dismayed.

Thinking what unfortunate timing Rick had, I hurried to say, Of course not. Rick was just—

—kidding around. You know just teasing her, Rick interrupted smoothly, stepping forward, his hand extended toward Hershel. Rick Dawson. Rick's Air Paradise, and that big fella over there is Ace Garrison. We'll be piloting the birds taking you around the island today.

He shook hands with Hershel as he dropped a playful wink in Janet's direction. Hey, Janet. Good to see you—then back to Hershel—and you are?

Hershel introduced himself and his pretty wife who was busy sizing up Rick like he was a piece of prime steak. "I'm afraid you won't be my pilot today," she said.

Oh? Rick and I said in unison.

"My wife doesn't do helicopters. There was no small amount of scorn in Hershel's tone. She's of the ridiculous opinion that they tend to drop out of the sky like dead weight."

Rick's eyebrows went up when he turned to Sarah, but his manner was kind as he reached for her hand, patting it. Oh, no, Mrs. Goldberg—Sarah, was it?—our whirlybirds are Eco-Star—sweet ladies with lots of power and a whole slew of five-star safety ratings from the FAA. You'll be as safe with us as in your mama's arms. There wasn't even a nuance of condescension in either his voice or touch.

But Sarah Goldberg was already shaking her head and pulling away. She sounded like a three-year-old. No. I won't go. I can't go. She even stomped one of her high-end shoes. I'm staying here.

Janet stepped in smoothly. That's no problem. I'll find something fun for us girls to do. You can go on with the others, Hershel. Sarah and I will have a great time. There are lots of ways to keep ourselves entertained here at Aloha Lagoon. Aren't there, Gabby?

Her eyes were bright, her voice a bit more shrill than normal, and I could tell she was trying to smooth potentially troubled waters, so I slid in. How about we catch the Talk Story Hour? It's fun and interesting, and your feet never leave the ground. It's right before the cocktail reception hour. We can meet here at four and walk over together.

Sarah smiled, but I could tell she wasn't actually amused. Sure, she said. Why not?

I'll go to the story hour, too, then, Hershel said.

Janet turned to him, hands aflutter. Oh, Hershel, no. I've taken the circle island air tour several times in the past. It's just breathtaking. You really will love—

He held up a hand. I said I'll go to the stories too.

And that, as they say, was that.

Rick, never one to see the down side, said, Okay, that'll free up some elbow room for the others.

He turned toward me, two fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. I'll be out front when your group gets ready, Princess.

Janet gave me a look and mouthed, Princess?

I pretended I hadn't seen her, but my cheeks burned, and she was sure to know I had.

Don't forget about tonight. Rick went on. He dropped a quick kiss on my cheek, and, not for the first time, I was momentarily distracted with thoughts of flying away in one of his gorgeous helicopters to a remote location where we could just sit together and watch the sun dip into the ocean, hold hands, and be one of mind and spirit. He had that effect on me.

I sighed. The sound of all three phone lines ringing simultaneously pulled me back to the workaday reality of owning my own business. No matter what my vagabond hero said, schedules had to be maintained, livelihoods had to be earned—even in paradise.

As I answered one of the ringing lines—Gabby's Island Adventures. Can you please hold a moment?—

Rick ducked into my line of sight—See ya later, alligator.—and walked out.

Ace walked out with him. After a while, crocodile. I glanced up to see him wink and lift his chin toward Janet. Janet gave him a slow wink back and blew him a kiss.

What's that about? I asked before going back to the phone call.

Janet waggled her eyebrows, mouthed the word hot, and made a gesture like she'd touched something that burned her. Her cell phone rang, and she answered it, moving away so her phone conversation wouldn't interfere with mine.

By the time I hung up with the nice lady from Room 210 who had it in mind to take her college-age granddaughter on an ATV island tour to the waterfalls, Janet was hovering by the door.

I'm going upstairs to shower and change for the evening, she said. I just had a call from Chelsea Westport.

I frowned. Which one was she?

You know the one who dresses like a diva but looks like a schoolmarm? The widow who was worried Koma was trying to jump her? She's my roommate.

I nodded, remembering.

She doesn't want to take advantage of the helicopter tour either, so she'll be coming back downstairs with me to join us and the Goldbergs for the story hour. I'll meet you back here after a while. She waved a hand and added with a sarcastic tone, Princess.

CHAPTER THREE

The afternoon story hour was wrapping up. It had been a charming tale of the Menehune, those rascally little Hawaiian people credited with a lot of the amazing things that happened on the islands back in the day. Wrapping it up, Ona, the Talk Story Lady, leaned forward conspiratorially from the big rattan fanback chair and lowered her voice.

"Okay, sure, we call it the Menehune Ditch, but it's more than a ditch. The little people? She paused, eyebrows raised, and looked at her audience. They built it to help the farmers bring water from the Waimea River to the taro fields. It's a beautiful thing this Menehune Ditch—the workmanship is so fine, just like everything the little people put their hands to. But all things get old and sometimes need work. Even the Menehune Ditch. It's the way of the world. So the people tell me that now and then, if you're really, really quiet and happen to be in the right spot on a beautiful island night, maybe you're gonna hear those Menehune talking, laughing, and singing while they work. Those little rascals—they're still out there. She stopped talking, looked around, and brushed her hands together like a Vegas blackjack dealer at the end of her shift. And that's Talk Story for today. I'll be here tomorrow, spinning you another island tale. Mahalo and aloha."

The Talk Story tales were told in soft, intimate tones in such a way, it made one feel as if long-held, treasured secrets were being revealed. Ona had once explained to me something about the stories made it irresistible for her to use the slightly clipped, musical island accent she'd copied from her mother and grandmother, both of whom had also been keepers of island legends before her.

Ona Hale, the Talk Story Lady, looked like every mainlander's idea of a mature island woman, and she cultivated it for her job at Aloha Lagoon. Her hair was half black, half grey. I'd been told it hung almost to her waist, but I'd only ever seen it braided and pinned to the back of her head where she wreathed it in fragrant, tropical flowers or ti leaves. The traditional ankle-length loose-hanging muumuu was her costume of choice.

She was a fireplug of a woman at about a hundred eighty pounds and a height of only about five feet. Her plump face and rounded island features made her appear as if she was always smiling whether she was or not. She was lovely.

Sarah and Chelsea had begged to be introduced to Ona, so Janet took them to the cocktail reception while I waited for Ona to finish greeting guests who'd gathered around to speak to her or get a quick selfie.

She turned and saw me. Miss Gabby, aloha.

Auntie Ona. I still had trouble calling a woman I barely knew auntie, but she'd insisted, explaining it branded me a non-islander to forego using the island term for a woman of that certain age. Good story today. I submitted to a fierce hug as she wrapped her short, plump arms around me and squeezed. A few of my VIP guests have asked to meet you. Do you have time?

You betcha, sistah.

Ona fell into step beside me. While I'd never really considered myself much of a speed-walker, Ona complained of weak knees and walked with a cane, a beautiful piece carved out of koa wood with a heavy knob as its head. It was polished to a high sheen with small bits of inlaid scrimshaw. She leaned on it heavily and had trouble keeping up, so I matched my pace to hers.

So, Miss Gabby, I figure to see you later at the House of Faith big deal blowout. Mistah Bobby, my bruddah, he say you and your handsome flyboy, Rick, are going to come.

We are. It's a great cause. Rick put up a half-day's worth of airtime to auction, and we're offering the travel agency shuttle for a party bus for one night.

Ona was Bobby Pukui's sister and real-life aunt to my employees, Lana and Koma Pukui. The House of Faith Chapel where Bobby served as pastor was hosting a fundraiser that evening to benefit the orphanage they sponsored.

Rick was coming to pick me up later, and I was jazzed about spending the evening with him. Just knowing I'd see him later relaxed me.

Rick Dawson. One of a kind. And I was happy as a clam that kind had turned out to be my kind.

Until Rick joined the army where he'd honed his pilot skills flying medevac helicopters, he'd been a California boy who'd grown up in foster homes—so different from my two-income, everything handed to me childhood in the Chicago suburb of Elmhurst. He was smart, levelheaded, and solid as a concrete slab. The twinkle in his cool blue eyes and the quirk of his mouth were the signs that there wasn't a lot in life Rick took all that seriously. It had taken a while to get used to his humor, but once I did, I fell for the guy, as he would say—hook, line, and sinker. With a slow hand and gentle persuasion, he'd teased and coaxed me from behind the protective shell of my rigid mainlander schedule and strictly business attitude into a more unguarded and relaxed existence. Well, most of the time.

Bit by bit between Rick and the Pukui twins, my employees, Koma and Lana, I was learning how to live life beyond office hours. I didn't kid myself. There were still way too many moments of sheer, choking, heart-thumping panic when I doubted my ability to run my own company and would revert to a clock-watching, detail-obsessing jitterbug. But lately, in the recesses of my mind, I could hear the soft murmur of palms swaying in flow of the Pineapple Express, and Rick's voice reminding me to chill out and deal, Princess.

I'd been trying to do just that more and more.

Hershel and Sarah Goldberg were seated outside on the Makai Terrace where the cocktail reception was held for the executive-level guests every evening from five to seven. The setup on the Makai Terrace was lovely, nestled in a garden area of lush leafy plants and tropical flowers ranging from birds-of-paradise to pikake. Comfortable wicker armchairs were set up around small cocktail tables. Soft island music played in the background.

The Goldbergs seemed to be engaged in intense conversation. She frowned under her blonde bangs, and he pulled at his frizzy hair. They had the grace to put it aside and smile when I walked up with Ona.

I introduced Ona to Sarah and Hershel first, then to Janet and Chelsea who'd walked up and sat down at the table with them.

A hosted bar for wine and soft drinks was at one end, where my friend Casey, one of the resort's studly bartenders who normally worked at The Lava Pot, was mixing drinks for half-price. I went to get Ona a cocktail. It was the least I could do since she was taking the time to entertain my guests.

Hey, Casey.

His back was to me while he polished glasses with a soft bar towel. He turned around and switched on that great smile, those big blue eyes lighting up. Hey, luv. How's she goin'?

Not bad, Casey. Not working at The Lava Pot tonight, eh.

No. It's my night off at the bar. Sometimes I can pick up a few quid hanging out here, pouring wine, and mixing drinks for the pre-dinner crowd.

What do you think about mixing a drink for Ona?

I think that's right up my alley, Gabby. And I know just what that special lady drinks. His accent made it sound like lydee. Mai tais. Extra rum and extra fruit.

It occurred to me that I liked extra fruit in mai tais too, but I just asked, And a pinot grigio for me, please.

When I carried the drinks back to the table, Mele, Ona's daughter, had joined the others.

It was hard to imagine that Mele Hale was even distantly related to Ona. The two women looked nothing alike. In her late twenties, Mele was tall and straight like a birch tree. Her hair, long and gleaming, hung straight down her back almost to her waist. It was her best feature, as all the others were sort of mismatched—small nose, large mouth, her eyes narrow and downturned so she always looked sad. She worked at the resort gift shop.

Hi, Mele, I said.

Her eyes shifted in my direction for a brief second before she looked back down at the floor and mumbled what I thought was, Hello, Miss LeClair, in her squeaky little voice.

Carrie Jorgenson, who must have been moonlighting from the Loco Moco, walked up balancing a tray of pupus, the light hors d'oeuvres served every night at the reception. It had definitely taken me a while to get used to that term as referring to something one puts in one's mouth.

Hi, Gabby, Carrie said. Carrie was one of my favorite waitresses at the Loco Moco. She was bright and friendly with a great welcoming smile and attitude. Too bad the entire world wasn't like that. Can I offer you something? She bent down and held the tray out so the three of us on the one side of the table—Janet, Chelsea Westport, and I—could consider her wares. Chelsea and Janet piled food onto their plates from a selection of coconut shrimp, spears of fresh fruit, and some of that yummy goat cheese from a creamery over on Oahu. I looked at the platter longingly but held off because I knew there would be offerings at the charity event later, and I didn't want to spoil my appetite.

The conversation at the table was brisk and light, covering everything from the beauty of the resort grounds that Nick Woodfield's staff maintained so meticulously to how Ona Hale came to be the Talk Story Lady. Although Chelsea Westport might as well not even have come. She sat listening, but not participating. She looked very nice in sunny yellow capris, a geometric print tunic of turquoise, yellow, and white. Her sandals were the kind I shunned but women of a certain age and income loved—flat-soled with gemstones all over the straps. I'd even noticed her toenails were the exact color-match to the turquoise in her tunic. All dressed up island style—but no makeup and that sullen look on her face ruined the effect.

It was interesting how Ona's Talk Story Lady persona had sort of gone MIA along with the slight pidgin accent. The women in my family have been the keepers of island legends for many, many generations. She went all soft and dewy-eyed as she said, My blessed mother gave me that most beautiful work when she left this place to go to Heaven.

That's fascinating. Sarah Goldberg leaned forward, hanging on Ona's every word, surprising me at the intense interest she had in Ona and her tales of the islands. She turned to Mele. So that must mean you'll be the next guardian of the myths, eh?

Mele cast a look at her mother that I could only interpret as guilt. She shook her head.

No? Such a shame. Sarah turned back to Ona. So what you said about this work being handed down through the generations…

Ona sighed as if a great and heavy load pressed down on her. She didn't look at Sarah when she spoke but at her daughter instead. Mele has chosen not to continue with our family tradition, to cast it aside, to abandon it. The harsh words hung in the air.

Abandon it? Gosh, Ona. As Rick would say, not pulling your punches, are you?

Mele's face went into her open palms.

I wanted to reach over and lay my hand on her shoulder, but I didn't know either Mele or her mother well enough to insert myself into what had suddenly become a very personal conversation.

Sarah looked from Ona to Mele and back, her eyes full of confused interest. Oh.

Even Hershel sat up and took notice, the first time he'd even looked remotely involved in what was going on at the table.

Mele pushed back her chair, stood, and without a word, she awkwardly stepped away from the table and headed across the terrace back into the lobby.

Ona quickly muttered, So nice to meet you all, and followed swiftly, her cane and stiff gait seeming not to hinder her much at all.

The rest of us sat there a moment in somewhat stunned silence until Janet clasped her hands together and said, Well, I guess that means the party's over.

I stood. I need to be going too. I have an engagement tonight that's been on my calendar for months. It's a charity event, and I wouldn't want to miss it.

When I started to walk away, the rest of the group also got up, following behind me, and we all walked into the lobby together.

Ona and Mele were there, standing together by the wall near the reception desk, their heads together. Ona seemed to be in consolation mode, her arm around her daughter's shoulders.

Mele's sudden cry was audible all the way across the lobby. Oh my gosh. It's him! She gawked.

Ona turned to see, and her mouth dropped open, which caused the rest of us to follow her stare.

Striding through the front entrance was a tall, well-built man. He moved with swagger, the sexy confidence of a man who knew that everyone in the room had turned to watch him. And we all had.

He was gloriously tanned. The short, curly style of his dark hair looked like one of those haircuts he'd have spent some serious bucks on. My ex, Steve, used to frequent those man-salons—hairstyling, massage, skin, nails, the whole works—the kind of place where the cost of services wasn't even listed. If a guy asked how much, he probably wasn't the sort vain enough to spend that kind of money on his appearance. This guy's pale blue board shorts exposed strong, tanned legs, and he carried off the leather sandals in a macho way that few men could in my opinion.

As Mele blurred past the great-looking man, he stopped dead in his tracks, dropping the handle of his carry-on. He looked as if he'd just seen a ghost.

Ona moved then, rushing out after Mele, stopping in front of the new arrival for a few brief seconds to give him a look of complete and utter hatred.

Sarah Goldberg gasped. I looked around at her. She'd gone pale. Beside her Hershel's face had twisted into an ugly mask.

The words that fell from his lips would have made the leader of a biker gang blush in shock.

Janet, on the other hand, seemed delighted. She laughed. Oh, great. I was beginning to think he'd changed his mind.

But even she shut up and took a step back as Hershel said, That filthy parasite. What the hell's he doing here? I'm gonna freakin' kill him.

CHAPTER FOUR

The House of Faith Chapel wasn't far from the resort, a little outside of town. The first time I'd gone to it, I'd driven right past. It wasn't like churches on the mainland, at least not like any I was familiar with. It sat back off the road in a big grassy clearing—a pitched-roof one-story building that had been added onto a few times. The whitewash exterior matched the two-story structure behind it that could easily have been mistaken for low-rent cinderblock apartments. The orphanage building bore no signage at all, and the only way a person could distinguish the chapel from an old-fashioned farmhouse was the marquee sign out front. Tonight the magnetic letters spelled out: Sure wish Noah had swatted those two mosquitos. Sunday service at 9:30.

Rick had picked me up at my place, and we rode over in his Jeep Wrangler. He parked on the grass near the sign along with dozens of other vehicles. He didn't move to get out of the car right away, and I'd already noticed he'd been pretty quiet on the way over. The quiet wasn't all that unusual. Rick Dawson wasn't the kind of guy who ran his mouth all the time, not like my ex-husband, Steve. If Steve wasn't spouting out some meddling advice or talking about himself, he was either asleep or had his mouth full of food. The man knew tens of thousands of bits of useless information and wanted everyone within earshot to know it. Rick was comfortable not talking, so that when he did, a person knew to listen because what he had to say was relevant.

But that night on the ride over, there hadn't even been the usual humming along to one of his playlists. No winks across the car. No hand-holding on the console.

Everything okay with you? I asked. Did the group flight go all right?

He half-smiled. Even a half smile from Rick Dawson was a gift, but I was spoiled and wanted the full treatment.

The flight? I gave 'em a real nice ride. Your big wheels had a heckuva good time. Especially the cute little geeky couple, the Lancasters.

As we walked around back to the garden where the event was being held, he reached for my hand, swinging our joined hands between us. It made me think of walking into prom with that special boy, or hamburger and fries at the burger place with adolescent fingers laced across the table or maybe on the armrest of a movie theater seat on a summer night. Cherished. That's the way I felt when Rick wrapped his fingers around mine—cherished—every single time he did it.

The Lancasters? I tried to remember which ones they were. Oh, right. The Bobbsey Twins? I remembered the couple who'd dressed alike and sort of even looked alike, who'd stopped on the airport tarmac to admire a rare bird on the building's roof. So they had a good time?

I'm gonna say yes. About halfway through the circle island flight, Mr. Lancaster, good old Freddy, took over narrating. I swear the man knows everything there is to know about this island from how much rain falls annually on Mount Waiʻaleʻale—452 inches by the way, in case somebody asks you—to the scientific names for just about every plant and animal around. Not only that. Freddy's a licensed helo pilot with a couple hundred hours under his belt.

Really?

Heck, if I thought he'd take it, I would've offered the guy a job. And the best part was that while he was spouting off all those facts and fifty-dollar words, his wife was looking at him like he was Zeus come down from Olympus.

I laughed. That's pretty cute.

He cleared his throat, suddenly serious. All the rest of those people could talk about—when Freddy and I weren't holding them spellbound with our scintillating narration, that is—was how excited they were to be adding Gabby's Island Adventures to their growing chain of travel agencies.

Something a little insecure was in his tone—an element I had to admit I seldom noticed in his voice—telegraphed the message that I should be mindful of what I said and how I said it. I think they're jumping the gun.

They didn't seem to think so. He'd tried to make it sound as nonchalant as the shrug he'd used to punctuate it.

I glanced over at him. He looked exceptionally fine tonight in a creamy silk sport shirt and navy Dockers. It's what I think that counts.

That's true. But instead of smiling like I would've expected from this easy-going, good-natured dude, his mouth drew into a tight line, his resistance unmistakable.

What's bothering you? I asked again.

Sorry, he said. I'm kind of a poop tonight, I guess. Let's forget it and have ourselves a good time.

I lifted our conjoined hands, turning them, and placed a light kiss on the back of his. Rick, those people have barely just arrived, and no overtures have been made. So…

He sighed, and the grin he'd turned on me testified to his letting it go—whatever it was. Hope they've laid out a good spread. I could eat a ton.

A whole ton? How about half a ton and save the other half for me. I'm pretty hungry too. But that won't leave much for everyone else.

Their problem, toots.

The event was already in full swing when we arrived. Red and gold Chinese paper lanterns were strung across the yard. Lit from within by tiny LED lights, they glowed magically. A buffet table laden with food donated from the Loco Moco featured finger foods, fruits, and veggie salads. Two enormous coolers offered iced tea or fruit punch.

Rick was a popular guy on the island. It seemed like everyone knew him, and he knew everyone. Calls of Hey, Dawson, rang out from all sides.

Bobby Pukui's was the first familiar face I saw.

Hey, Bobby. I greeted him. This is so lovely. You did a beautiful job.

The kids from the home, they did it all. He looked around happily, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Red and gold. Prosperity, wealth, happiness, good luck. That's what we're hoping. We can really use the help. And thank you both for the generous donations. It's a sure thing they're gonna bring in some good bids.

In addition to serving as pastor for the chapel, Bobby worked for the Kauai P.D. chaplaincy corps. The Pukuis were one of the few full-blooded Hawaiian dynasties on the island. He looked so different in his brightly colored island shirt than he did in his P.D. uniform. He took off one of the three leis from around his neck, draped it over my head and onto my shoulders. A fatherly peck on the cheek preceded, You're good people, Gabby. He gave Rick a light punch on the arm. You too, bruddah. Now go have fun.

So we did.

* * *

We had a nice time at the fund drive for the orphanage and an even nicer time at his place afterwards. Rick dropped me back at my place around twelve thirty.

I wasn't trying to make a lot of racket, but the crack of the lanai screen door banging shut behind me and the thump of my discarded shoes hitting the floor would have awakened someone in a coma. But not Janet, who was sound asleep on the futon.

Janet had still been at Aloha Lagoon when I'd come home earlier to feed the cat, change, and get ready for the event at House of Faith, said she was going to have a drink at The Lava Pot with an old friend. She'd asked me if it was okay if she came to the house afterward and slept over. She hadn't relished the idea of rooming with Chelsea Westport. She'd rolled her eyes and put it all in Janet-speak. I'm telling you true here. That girl's a real drag. And I bet she snores.

You don't even have to ask, I'd told her. "It is your house after all."

She'd just waved me off and thanked me.

The all-cash purchase of my travel agency had me so strapped that when I'd first moved to the island, I'd figured I might have to sleep in the back room of the travel agency. But Janet had come to the rescue. The best kind of friend, she'd offered me the sweet A-frame cottage where I currently lived (one of her three abodes—a Chicago uptown condo, a tiny little place in West London she called a bed-sit, and the house on Kauai—all courtesy of the inheritance she'd received on the death of her spinster aunt who'd despised the rest of Janet's family and left Janet every nickel of her considerable estate). I only paid for upkeep and utilities. And I'd grown to love the two-story, one-bedroom house which was set inland north of Aloha Lagoon in a residential area just southeast of the mountain they called the Sleeping Giant.

Since it was Janet's place, she already had her own key but had still taken the time to razz me about locking the door. I was one of very few people on the island who bothered—remnants of the city girl I still couldn't shake altogether. Before Rick had picked me up, I'd left a note on the table that if she arrived before me to please take the bed upstairs.

But one of several things was obvious, either she'd indulged in too many Shark Bites or Lava Flows and not made it upstairs, had found the sweet night air afforded by the lanai too hard to resist, or she'd just fallen asleep while waiting for me to come home. Either way, there she was, fully dressed and sprawled on the comfy rattan futon sofa, one arm hanging off, one arm thrown across her eyes, and one ankle propped on the sofa arm.

Hercules, my grey tiger-striped cat, lay between her ankles. He lifted his head and gave me a baleful stare before jumping down onto the floor and stretching.

I hesitated before doing it but knew Janet would sleep better upstairs, so I laid a hand on her shoulder and shook it. Janet?

Louder. Janet?

A third time, even louder. Janet?

Nothing, not even a twitch. I put my hand beneath her nose to make sure she was still breathing, even going so far as to check her pulse. Whew. I breathed out. You had me worried there for a second, woman.

In the dim flickering light cast by the fake battery-operated candles I kept there, my gaze caught a prescription bottle on the table. Oh, sure. I'd forgotten that a good night's sleep was a luxury that had eluded Janet for as long as I'd known her. Sans medication anyway. She swore by the sleeping pills her doctor prescribed. In her own words, I'd be a raging harpy without them. They put me out like a blow to the back of the head. And I love every minute of it.

I went inside and took the fringed throw off the main sofa, went back to the lanai and covered her with it. She still hadn't moved.

I started up the stairs. Hercules preceded me, in an obvious hurry to get down to some real snoozing in his usual spot, curled up on my feet.

The sun came streaming in through the blinds I'd forgotten to close when the pounding on my front door stirred me. I hadn't set my alarm, and I rolled over to see it was already half past seven. Sleeping in for me. I'd asked Koma and Lana to open the agency so I could hang around and have breakfast with Janet. I'd even packed in some Portuguese sausage and eggs so I could make her one of the special omelets Rick had taught me to cook. The omelet, grilled cheese sandwiches, and heating up hot dogs were the extent of my cooking expertise, the result of having been a hard-working career girl my entire life. I always figured that was why God invented takeout.

The pounding stopped suddenly. I scooted out of bed, pulled on a lightweight wrap, and padded downstairs. I met Janet at the bottom of the stairs.

Little early for company, isn't it? she asked.

She went with me to the front door, and I pulled it open. On the other side of the screen door stood Detective Ray Kahoalani.

What the heck did he want?

Detective Ray wasn't on my list of top guys on the island. I'd had a drawn-out encounter with him the summer before. He was brusque and all business when he was working. I'd never interacted with him socially, so as far as I knew that was the way he was all the time.

He touched the brim of his straw skimmer. If it had been any other man, I would've thought the gesture charming, but on just-the-facts-ma'am Detective Ray, it seemed a little rote.

Good morning, Miss LeClair.

Detective. I waited.

Her curiosity nearly a tangible entity, Janet stood so close behind me that if I'd moved I would have bumped into her.

Detective? Her voice rose in surprise, but for once there was no inflection of flirtation in it.

What can I do for you this early, Detective Ray? I asked.

His cop's point of view took in both of us, and he touched his hat again. I was just wondering, Miss LeClair,—he paused, lifted his chin, and scratched under it—if you—he cast a speculative glance in Janet's direction—have anything to do with the dead body in your back yard.

CHAPTER FIVE

I just stared through the screen at Detective Ray. What the heck is he talking about?

But from my past dealings with the police detective and the serious look on his face, I could tell he wasn't kidding around.

Behind me, Janet snorted and laughed a little. Dead body? Right. That's a good one.

I shot her a warning look, and after a double take, she said, Really? No.

Please get dressed, ladies, and meet me out back to see if you can identify the victim. Detective Ray turned away from the door and headed around the house.

Victim. He'd said victim. Did that mean he suspected homicide?

Janet was already dressed, and her hair was damp, so I figured she'd probably showered in the downstairs guest bathroom.

I turned back toward the stairs. I'll just throw on something and be right back, I said.

She stood there looking at me, her expression puzzled. Really, Gabby? I mean, is he serious? A dead body? Here on the island, here at the house?

Serious? Oh, yeah, I threw back over my shoulder. One thing you can count on. Detective Ray is always serious.

I pulled on a pair of capri leggings and a tank top, and we were both outside in less than ten minutes. My hair was still standing straight up, so I finger-combed it (just one of the perks of a pixie cut) while my flip flops, what the islanders called slippers, carried me across the warm damp grass around the house and to the big empty space behind it where I always parked the car on the patch of rich red soil that was kept clear of the thick island grass for that very purpose.

The good-sized lot on which Janet's small house sat was a couple of acres, like most of the neighboring lots around it. The piece of land behind the house was part of a bigger parcel that the owner was sitting on while it appreciated in value. Between me and my next-door neighbor was an empty lot, also about two acres in size.

My part of the neighborhood was kept tended and mowed by a three-man father and sons yard crew who worked the entire area. Pika, the father, would leave the fruit he'd picked from